The Fire Witness

53

It’s already four thirty in the afternoon by the time Joona drives past Tumba. He once investigated a brutal triple homicide in a town house there. On the seat next to him is a list of all Vicky Bennet’s known residences through the years. The last one is Birgittagården and the first is Strandvägen 47.

He’s sure Vicky must have talked to someone she stayed with. She must have confided in someone or have a friend somewhere. Elin Frank said that Vicky was sweet. That’s all she’d said.

Sweet, Joona thinks.

For the wealthy Franks, Vicky was a child in trouble, a girl who needed help, someone who had to be shown mercy. It was a question of charity. But for Vicky, Elin was the first sane mother she’d had.

Life for her at Strandvägen must have been like a fairy tale. She was kept warm and ate regular meals. She slept in a bed and wore lovely clothes. She would have had toys to play with. The time she spent with Elin and Jack must shine bright in her memory.

Joona turns on the signal before he moves into the left lane.

He has studied the list. Before she was sent to Birgittagården, Vicky was at the Ljungbacken orphanage. Before that, she spent two weeks with a family named Arnander-Johansson in Katrineholm.

In his mind’s eye, he sees The Needle and Frippe forcing Miranda’s hands away from her face. They’d fought her stiff arms, as if the dead girl was resisting. As if she was ashamed to be seen. But her face was calm and as white as a pearl.

She’d been sitting with the blanket around her body when, according to The Needle, a large rock hit her. She’d been hit six or seven times. Then she was lifted onto the bed and her hands were placed in front of her face.

The last thing she saw in life was her killer.

Joona slows down as he reaches an older residential area. He parks by the side of the street, next to a hedge of flowering Öland cinquefoil. He gets out of the car. A woman is walking around the house carrying a bucket of apples. It’s apparent she has trouble moving her hips and her mouth is tense with pain. She’s hefty, with large breasts and thick upper arms.

“You just missed him,” she says.

“Typical,” Joona says.

“He had to go to the warehouse. Something about the invoices.”

“Who are we talking about?” asks Joona. He’s smiling.

She puts down the bucket.

“I thought you were here about the treadmill.”

“How much does it cost?”

“One thousand. It’s brand-new.” She rubs her hand along the crease of her pants as she looks at him.

“I’m not here about the treadmill. I’m here from the National Police,” Joona says. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What’s this about?”

“Vicky Bennet. She lived with you about a year ago.”

The woman’s face turns sad. She nods and points to the door. Joona follows her into a kitchen with a table covered by a crocheted cloth beside a window with floral curtains, which faces onto the backyard. Outside, the lawn is freshly mown. Plum trees and gooseberry bushes form a hedge along the property line, and a small swimming pool is tucked behind a wooden lattice fence.

“Vicky has run away,” Joona says directly.

“I read about it in the newspapers,” she says as she puts the bucket in the sink.

“Do you know where she might be hiding?”

“No idea.”

“Did she ever mention friends or boys?”

“Vicky didn’t really live here long,” the woman says.

“Why is that?”

“It didn’t work out.” She fills a carafe with water and pours it into the coffee machine. Then she stops.

“I guess offering coffee is part of what you do when the police stop by,” she says without any strength in her voice.

Joona is looking out the window at two blond boys playing karate in the backyard. They’re thin and tanned and wearing swimming shorts that are too large. The play is rough and wild, but the boys are laughing.

“So you foster children?”

“Our daughter is nineteen now, so, well, we’ve done this for a few years.”

“How long do the children usually stay with you?”

“It varies. They can go back and forth for a while,” she replies. She turns to Joona. “Some of these kids come from really broken homes.”

“Is it difficult?”

“No, not really. Of course, there are always conflicts, but you just have to be clear about the limits.”

One of the boys jumps into the swimming pool and is followed by the second, who somersaults in.

“Vicky stayed only two weeks,” Joona says looking at the woman. She avoids his gaze.

“We have the two boys,” she says. “We’ve had them for two years now. They’re brothers. We hoped it would work with Vicky, but we had to stop.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I mean, nothing really. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. We just weren’t up to it.”

“Did Vicky cause trouble? Was she hard to manage?”

“No, no,” she says. “It was…” She stops speaking.

“What were you going to say? What happened?”

“Nothing at all.”

“You were both experienced foster parents. Why did you decide to give up after only two weeks?”

“It is what it is.”

“Something must have happened.”

“No, really, it was just too much for us.”

“Something must have happened,” Joona repeats in the same soft tone of voice. “Tell me, please.”

She reddens and the blush travels all the way down her neck to between her breasts.

“Someone visited us,” she whispers.

“Who?”

She shakes her head. Joona hands her his notebook and a pen. Tears start to run down her cheeks. She looks at him, and then she takes the pen and notebook. She begins to write.